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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28516299">Sweetgold, Little Lamb</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBitterKitten/pseuds/TheBitterKitten'>TheBitterKitten</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Night Calling [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, HannibaLibre, Hurt Some Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jealous Hannibal Lecter, M/M, Murder Husbands, Murder Husbands in Cuba, POV Hannibal Lecter, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Possessive Will Graham, Soft Hannibal Lecter, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Will Graham Loves Dogs, a sad cannibal lecter, it’s not jealousy if it’s a dog, out of your depth, perhaps overconfident, pets change a lot of things</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:49:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,429</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28516299</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBitterKitten/pseuds/TheBitterKitten</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Hannibal get a dog. It’s great for Will.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or: Two murder drama queens change their status quo and don’t use things like words.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Night Calling [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043592</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>144</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will is fidgeting on the quiet drive into town. A knee bounces thoughtlessly as he stares out the window, worrying at his lip. He runs a hand through his hair, pats his legs, smooths the fabric there.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re sure about this?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes, Will. I’ve researched it. I’m prepared. Above all, I trust you and your judgment.” Hannibal is blithely serene beside him, hands at ten and two on the wheel.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s a big change, though. Things won’t be thesame. Good, but not the same.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Perhaps better, as incomprehensible as that seems. Any dog would be lucky to have you care for them. You connected with her, and so we’ll bring her home. I’ve told you before, there’s nothing I would deny you.” Hannibal feels positively magnanimous, soothing Will’s needless worries with smooth confidence.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will relaxes visibly in his seat, excitement bubbling over now that nothing holds it back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She looks like a Delilah,” he says, almost conspiratorially.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that her name?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">“The shelter is calling her </span> <span class="s2"><em> la quisquillosa</em>,</span><span class="s1"> which agrees with you,” Will says with a teasing smile. </span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not fussy, Will. I’m particular in my tastes. There exists a difference,” Hannibal says with prim good humor. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fastidious, then,” Will rejoins.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll accept that as a compliment and not the fault you mean it as.” Hannibal casts Will a dancing, mischievous glance as he drives. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They pull into the parking lot of the rescue, the Bentley shining extravagantly against their surroundings. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Right before they disembark, Will grabs hold of Hannibal’s hand on the gear shift by the wrist, and his grip is so tight and earnest Hannibal stops breathing. He looks at Will, curious, and Will doesn’t meet his gaze. “Hey, I love you, you know,” he says off-handedly, carefully light and unassuming. His eyes are a pure blue fire as they flicker and snag at Hannibal’s gaze before turning away to the dashboard.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal has absolutely no frame of reference to know how to respond to such a declaration. It’s as if Will set off a happy bomb in his heart, an explosion of emotion overwhelming him in a whirling flurry. He knew it, of course. But to hear the words so plainly spoken is something entirely new. Something deeply and sweetly penetrating. He stares at Will, processing the blush spreading across his cheeks, the twitch in his jaw, the uncertain set of his lips. The dark fringe of lashes cast down, hiding his eyes. His blood high vibrant pink as it fights the tan of his skin. He realises belatedly that his other is waiting for a response. Hannibal speaks before he can think or compose his speech, “I love you, Will. Beyond thought or reason.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will grins at him, soft sunlight against shadows, and Hannibal could live there. “Good.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> He gets out of the car. Hannibal follows in a daze, quietly and completely shattered, feet not even touching the ground.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Delilah is a tiny, frail Italian Greyhound. She is just constantly shivering, knobby tail tucked between her legs; all nervy fragile bones wrapped thinly in rough, spiked-up blue brindled fur. Her ears are enormous for her size, and prick forward in hopeful interest, then lay back shyly against her skull. She’d been abandoned by some tourist; left soft and defenseless to wander the streets of Havana after she shat on the carpet or some other sin. She’s shivering now, a little bony ball in the far corner of the room. Hannibal can see why Will was drawn to her. The creature radiates a lonely helplessness they both feel called to address, if not help.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will breaks away from Hannibal to crouch down, his hand stretched out with sausage held in his closed fist. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Delilah has no self-preservation instincts whatsoever. She’s too used to being petted and coddled and admired. Her not-insignificant time on the streets has seemingly taught her nothing as she bolts right for Will. She wolfs down the sausage in his hand when he opens it and then runs up to lick his face. Her body is one wriggling expression of unreserved and trusting happiness. Will scoops her up and takes her in close. He kisses her nose and between her eyes as she squirms to get closer to him, tail lashing madly in his arms. Will is heedless of fleas or dirt or the dampness of her fur from the hasty bath the employees gave her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey, baby. Hey, there. Hi. Yes, hello! Hi, my little lamb. Let’s get you home, huh?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And it’s settled. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal takes care of the adoption fees and leaves a generous donation as well with the attendant at the till.He holds the collar and leash Will has brought, apparently only for propriety’s sake. Will is already halfway out the door and heading to their car with Delilah in his arms. Hannibal shares a look with the attendant and gives her a mild, “what can you do?” shrug. He heads for the car, unlocking it so Will can get in.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">The ride home is filled with the scent of a very dirty dog recently washed with too little shampoo. If Hannibal looks, and he doesn’t look for his sanity, he can see shed hairs floating in the cabin, blown by the air conditioning. Will is already teaching her manners on his lap with the rest of the sausage they brought as reward; </span> <span class="s2">sit</span> <span class="s1"> and </span> <span class="s2">lay down. </span> <span class="s1">She may not have street smarts, but she is an intelligent little thing. Her wide brown eyes certainly recognize Will’s gentle directions, even if her body hasn’t yet made the connection to action on her part. </span></p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is she everything you saw in her photo, Will?” Hannibal attempts polite inquiry with a small indulgent smile, expecting him to start gushing. Will doesn’t answer him, still showering the dog with praise and requests to lie down. Long seconds pass before Hannibal ventures, “Will?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hm?” he’s distant, focused instead on the shivering, joyful thing in his lap shedding all over him and masking his lovely scent with plain dirty dog.Hannibal repeats the question. “Is she everything you thought she would be?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It takes Will a long moment to reply, “Oh, yes. They didn’t do you justice at all, did they, little lamb? Just look at you. Yes. Sit? Yes! Oh, good girl, Delilah, yes, that’s a good sit.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal waits for Will to at least look at him, sparing him quick glances from the road as he drives, but he doesn’t. The minutes stretch out before them. Hannibal at last gives up, allowing Will the ride home to be wrapped up in their new dog. He focuses on the road. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cracks the windows.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will spills out of the car as they arrive home, shepherding the pathetic-looking thing in his arms to their bath. “Let’s get you properly clean, yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal hears, in time, the sounds of the bath filling, water splashing and Will’s already devoted little coos and praises. A few errant, ear-shattering barks. He runs through their inventory and supply of disinfectants. Debates the merits of enzymatic, pet-focused cleaning agents as he makes lunch, chopping shallots. Maybe it will be all right. Will is incandescently happy, from the lilting tone of his voice drifting into the kitchen, and that’s worth a lot.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal sees Will exit the bath, face turned down with rapt joy to the little snout poking from a swath of bath towel in his arms. Hannibal straightens with a smile, expecting a report, or acknowledgment, or something, but Will heads for the door. Will tosses out as an afterthought that he’s just gonna let the sun dry her fur right quick. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Hannibal reassesses the situation. Having a dog will be an adjustment. He knows that; and he knows just how much dogs mean to Will. Knows, too, that Will bringing one home is a sign of commitment and permanence. </span> <span class="s2"><em>Hey, I love you, you know</em>. </span> <span class="s1"> He didn’t mind feeding or checking on Will’s dogs in Wolf Trap. He even felt fond of them as an extension of the man who cared for them; especially the little plucky white one with an underbite and the wolfish brindle with a calm savviness. So, it stands to reason he shouldn’t mind sharing their home here. And Delilah’s such a small creature. Things will return to normal or better, given time. He puts it out of his mind and returns to his task.</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’ll have a simple Niçoise salad and fruit for lunch. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But there’s an abhorrent odor wafting from the bath that Hannibal cannot abide as he compiles their meal. He finishes off plating the salad, leaves the fruit for after. He unties and folds his apron.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He gathers gloves, a bucket, cleaning cloths, pours a measure of bleach from the closet. He heads to the bath. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal grimaces in open revulsion at the gray ring of soap scum peppered with dead fleas and the fur-clogged streaks plastered to the walls and floor of the tub. There’s myriad little puddles scattered across on the tile and the fine spray of dirty water reaches over even to the glass door of the shower where Delilah must have shook it off. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He scrubs hard and sprays a final sanitizing coat of bleach, making a mental note to get a washbasin on their next grocery run into town. He debates whether to request that Will bathe her outside from now on. He puts things in their places, washes his hands, and opens a few windows to air everything out. The sound of the waves rushes in with the breeze. There’s seabirds calling, high and lonely. Will’s patter as he chases and is chased by Delilah in the bright cloudless daylight of early afternoon. Hannibal watches their game of tag for a moment. She’s distinctly lighter than before, the whites of her coat shining as she dashes through the sand of their beach, chasing Will. Hannibal smiles to see Will so delighted, and returns to his work.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">He cuts the </span> <em><span class="s2">mamey colorado </span></em> <span class="s1">with quick, sure movements of his knife, separating the pit and arranging the soft orange slices in a spiral on the serving dish. He sets the table, adds freesia and butterfly jasmine to the placement at the center. </span></p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He waits. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pours wine. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Will comes back in, tracking sand and smelling like sunwarmed skin and clean sweat, Hannibal has to limit his admonishment to an indulgent, “Please respect our home, Will. I couldn’t stand the smell or the mess left in the bath.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I was going to get to it when I got back in, but I wanted to make sure she was dry,” Will says. It’s a shade defensive, but he relents. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry. This looks great; thanks for making it.” Hannibal stands proudly, expectant, as Will peers over the dishes. Will plucks up a slice of <em>mamey zapote</em>, bites it in half. He licks the juice that drips, chasing it across his bottom lip with the pink tip of his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Almost like peaches, but more... I don’t know.Honey? Nutty? Like almonds. Warm. I like it,” Will says, considering as he chews. Hannibal leans in, wanting to taste it off him, but Will feeds a morsel to the dog in his arms. Hannibal subtly pulls out the slices of fruit Will’s fingers must have touched before he carries the plate to the table, discards them.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s all ready, if you’d like to sit. After you wash your hands, of course.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will does, setting the dog down. She circles aimlessly near him, and then around Hannibal. She paws at his leg, and her nails catch at the fabric of his trouser. Hannibal gives Delilah a reproving look and she retreats instantly with a little whine. He frowns, not having intended so strong a reaction from her, and he reaches down a hand to pat her head reassuringly. She backs away before he can touch her and heads for the other side of Will’s chair. Hannibal studies her for a moment, but Will is sitting down to eat. He turns his attention to their meal.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Lunch is good until Will grows increasingly distracted by Delilah. He doesn’t pick her up, but as she roams further away from him into the house, exploring, he wolfs the rest of his plate down. He then gets up from the table without even an ‘if you’ll excuse me’.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Will?” Hannibal asks, only halfway through his own plate and truly ruffled at the rudeness of leaving a still-eating companion alone at the table. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll wash the dinner plates. Make it up to you. She’s getting antsy,” he says, as if that’s a legitimate excuse.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Will moves over to the wicker tub of toys he’s collected in anticipation of her arrival and rifles through it. Finds what he wants and tempts the dog with a rope pull, slipping in a few more manners like </span> <span class="s2"><em>drop it</em>.</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal is left seething at the table. The salad suddenly has no taste, so he rises to wash up. He puts on Rachmaninoff to drown out the sound of Delilah’s skittering nails, surely digging wounds into the parquet flooring. Will will have to trim them sooner rather than later. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dinner is disappointingly the same. Hannibal sticks to a one-pot meal, a simple <em>arroz con pollo</em>, to save dishes for Will. And Will gets up while Hannibal is still eating with the excuse that Delilah needs to go out, unless Hannibal would rather the alternative. When he returns some egregiously long time later, neither of them comment on the fact that the kitchen is pristine and Hannibal is at his desk.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal doesn’t suggest they read that evening. Instead, he remains at their desk, drawing. Content and gracious enough to just listen to Will’s indefatigable attention paid to the little thing hanging on his every word. As it stands, it’s marginally helpful; he’s sketching Will from the other day. In the drawing, Will sits with his head just barely tipped back in the shadowed audience, taking in Faust. His eyes are lightly shaded by their lids and his mouth is parted as if for a kiss, the soft inner rim of his lips open and inviting, his face alight with that peculiar decadent interest of his.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Will takes her out one last time for the night, Hannibal stacks everything neatly in its place on his desk. He checks their home, and then moves to turn down the bed and ready the shower. Will is appreciative, begs off to tuck Delilah into her kennel for the evening. Hannibal has just started soaping himself when Will joins him, a wistfulness shading his face.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">“She’s so... </span> <em><span class="s2">pretty</span></em><span class="s1">. And so very smart, Hannibal. She already knows her name, and she’s got </span> <span class="s2"><em>sit</em>, <em>lie down</em>, </span> <span class="s1">and </span> <em><span class="s2">heel </span></em> <span class="s1">down pat</span><span class="s2">.</span> <span class="s1"> Touch and go with </span><em> <span class="s2">stay</span></em><span class="s1">, but it’s only been an afternoon</span><span class="s2">. </span> <span class="s1">I can’t imagine why anyone would just abandon her.” His face colors with some empathic remembrance of abandonment.</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Their loss becomes our joy,” Hannibal replies gamely. The sappy slight smile forming on Will’s face, all his own, could light a fire all by itself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But Will seems caught off-guard when Hannibal wraps his arms around Will’s waist and up his chest in a sinuous curve, presses the wet line of his body against his other’s. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re not tired?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not especially, no.” Hannibal interprets his meaning, though; begins to draw away before Will catches his hands, pinning them just above their scar carved into Will’s belly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s all right. We can. I want it, just... something quick.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Whatever you’d like, Will.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That night, Will is restless in his arms. Will was distracted and hard to please despite Hannibal’s efforts earlier. His mind was clearly elsewhere, but he wouldn’t let Hannibal stop until Will shuddered into Hannibal’s deft working hands and wrapped his arms about his neck. Buried his face against Hannibal’s chest and moaned; a lost and helpless little sound Hannibal drank in like wine. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And now, he’s tense, shifting restlessly where Hannibal is lax against him. Will is listening to the low, uncertain, discomfited whines echoing from the kennel in what’s now the guest room. Delilah’s nails dig fruitlessly against plastic walls and rattle the metal door. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will pulls away from him, ignoring Hannibal’s protests, and sits up. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m just gonna check on her.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She’s fine, Will. She’s fed and watered and has soft blankets. I know they’re soft, because you took them from the linen closet.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal tightens his grip on Will, fitting him closer to himself. “Stay here with me, please.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, I know, but I’m just gonna check. Be right back.” Will gives Hannibal a fleeting, mindless kiss to the temple before he gets up and disappears through the door. Hannibal watches the empty space of the doorframe, ill at ease.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will appears a few moments later, but he’s not alone. He’s shepherding white-splashed gray fur in his arms, and Hannibal’s heart sinks. There’s a snuffling, scrabbling chaos as Delilah runs riot over the bed, stepping on Hannibal with sharp, heavy little claws as she sniffs everything. He stills, all relaxation gone. He waits it out with his eyes closed. Her scant weight pulls and tugs at the covers until Will climbs into bed, calls her softly to settle. She does so near the foot of Will’s side of the bed, and now there’s a space between Will and himself. Hannibal waits for Will to close it and nestle back into him again with that little burrow of his shoulders into Hannibal’s chest. Will doesn’t. He’s splayed out somewhere between Hannibal and Delilah, breathing deeply and soon asleep from the rise and fall of his bare back in the darkness. Hannibal watches him for a moment, incredulous. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He rolls over to face the wall. Catalogues the feeling coursing through him as dismay. Files it away in some dark neglected corner of his mind. Tries to sleep.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Their home is so very loud, now. Where there was gorgeous, aching silence; still and full and felt on the back of the tongue with only the rush of the waves from the beach, or music, or poetry— there’s now the anxious, incessant clattering of little sharp paws clawing marks into the parquet wood floors. Intrusive snuffs of breath. Little yapping barks at empty air that go straight through his head. He counts it a blessing that Will trains her out of that quickly enough.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Delilah is always and constantly looking for Will, demanding his attention, and Will always freely gives it. She has no such fealty to Hannibal. On the increasingly rare times he tries to pet her, or offer food, she backs away and skitters into Will’s welcoming arms. Hannibal must be content with an easy, “Don’t worry, she’ll come around.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And if Will is ever bothered that Delilah sees him as god but hangs the other, he doesn’t show it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will makes use of the kitchen too, now. Hannibal cedes the territory as gracefully as he can. He rankles at the mess Delilah makes around her bowls: splashing water, scattering food. He reminds Will once and then again that the pot he prefers to make her food in needs more water on the stove or it will warp. In fact, already has, so Hannibal resolves to just buy a new one for himself when he heads next into town. That the knives absolutely must be hand-washed, or the blades will dull and get nicked. Will at least attends to that, and so they can still share their knives. The refrigerator is rearranged for Delilah’s food, and the smell of it settles on other ingredients set inside. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As the days drag on and turn into double-digits of inattention, afterthought, and thoughtless rudeness, Hannibal often considers whether he agreed to Will bringing a dog home with his larger or smaller head. And he sees the way Will dotes on her. The way she’s growing dense under his care, her fur rich and sleek.The way Will carries her everywhere just because she likes being held in his arms and the vantage point he affords. How he’s so easily distracted by her wide, pleading brown eyes and insistent paw when they’re eating, or really doing anything that doesn’t involve her. Begs off evenings out or accompanying him on trips to town on account of her separation anxiety, but soon, he promises, when she’s settled. The softness of his face as she does anything at all. As she simply exists in front of him. The sweet and total, open love shading Will’s voice as he relates a new milestone she’s crossed or just whatever inane thing she did on one of the thousand daily walks Will takes with her. Walks he has never specifically invited Hannibal to join. The way Will is happy and entirely complete. The way Will is satisfied to a degree he never has been since the man pushed him off a bluff and into the grinding maw of the sea.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I assure you, she can walk. None of her legs are broken,” Hannibal says, not looking up from Camus' <em>L'Etranger</em> to the too-familiar view of the dog in Will’s arms as he moves around their home. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t mind,” is the absent reply, and Hannibal burns. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shall we read tonight, Will? We haven’t in some time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We can, sure, yeah. Would you like that, little lamb?” and Will would have agreed to orange juice from a bottle for dinner, for all he was paying attention.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal opens the Hugo anyway. He picks up from where they left off, over a weekend ago now, with the barricades overrun. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will is present for a precious, brief four pages before he’s looking down at Delilah lying on his lap. He pets her slowly, with genuine reverence. He gazes into her devoted brown eyes and not a word Hannibal says even enters his ears, let alone sparks his imagination to let Hannibal see.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think we’ll stop there,” Hannibal says, hoping for a rebuttal, a plea to continue. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sounds good,” and Will is already up from the chair he was sat in, carrying Delilah out for what he says is a last walk before bed. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Hannibal just sits there on the sofa, deeply unwilling to acknowledge the feeling boiling away inside him. He stills his tongue against calling for Will, calling Will back to him. </span> <em><span class="s2">Hey, I love you, you know. </span></em> <span class="s1">He hears the door shut. At that, Hannibal stands, returns the book to its place on the shelf, and goes to shower.</span></p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The days drag on; turn into a month and three weeks. Hannibal reminds himself that things will return to normal or better before too much longer, and he will adapt regardless. He finds himself alone in Havana, and then smaller, more far-flung towns most days. He visits museums, art exhibits, markets, little cafes where he sits at a patio table and take in the color of the suburbs and villages as a sketch. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal brings back meat from his day trips on occasion, which he serves for dinner. Will doesn’t comment except for a brief, vaguely cautionary glance before he forks a bite. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The third time, he offers, “This is very fresh.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The markets usually are. Meat is butchered the same day as it’s sold here,” Hannibal replies. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will’s face twitches. It could be jealousy. It could be Will feeling left out and wanting to join. And it could be the chile seeds in the sauce as he reaches for a slice of their bread.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not avoiding Will if Hannibal asks for his company and is always denied. Hannibal makes sure he is home in the evenings. That Will never goes hungry. Hannibal sleeps beside him despite the dog. Despite the fact that Will can be in his arms, pinned beneath him and shaken to pieces, and immediately go to clean up and change the sheets so he can let the dog in. But Hannibal is patient. Something will change for the better, soon. Has to.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shall we read tonight, Will?” Hannibal asks, no longer certain of Will’s response. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">“I think I’ll have some of this on the porch first, but yeah,” is Will’s answer, holding a deep glass of neat Balvenie whisky in one hand and Delilah in the other. Hannibal nods his grudging assent, watching Will as he leaves. He reads through the search alerts he’s set, FBI and Interpol memorandums. </span> <em><span class="s2">The Tattler</span></em><span class="s1"><em>,</em> and then finally through other tabloid news for mentions of them, finds nothing of interest. He closes the lid, plugs in the tablet to charge, and gets up to ready their book. He resettles on the sofa to one side of center. He hopes Will will choose the closer side to sit on again. He rereads aloud the last few paragraphs they’ve read together so that he has the cadence and the timbre of the characters for when Will comes back in. He does again for good measure, refining his inflections, if he’s meant to hold Will’s attention over the dog. Hannibal runs a finger over the edge of the page, looks to the empty space beside him, and then rereads it again to practice. Waits with readiness.</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will doesn’t come in for an hour. He pauses in the kitchen, setting the dog down to get settled in the living room. She swans in with her head and tail high, nails clicking smartly against the floors. She goes straight for her usual armchair furthest from the sofa by the fireplace, twirling a circle before she curls up into a little donut of wagging tail and ears on the plush seat. Hannibal fingers a page in his hand, turns to Will coming in with a fresh ample pour, swaying a little.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will looks at Hannibal with a dark fondness as he takes in the other’s position on the sofa. The history of it, as he sips the whisky. Hannibal looks up at him, feeling not dissimilar to the moment in the house on the bluff; Will watching the Dragon change him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will drinks from the glass, sets it on the side table. With considered and purposeful movement, he leans in. He braces his arms against the back of the sofa to either side of Hannibal’s head, and kneels to straddle his lap, pressing him with a deep kiss. Hannibal sighs as Will works his mouth against his, into his with no resistance. Tastes the abundance of sherry wood rich amber burn on Will’s tongue. Will’s fingers curl into his hair and scrape along his scalp, send a shiver all the long way down to his toes. His body is shifting, clinging to him with knees and thighs, grinding Will’s flushed heat against Hannibal’s. Hannibal arches up as much as he’s able to meet Will.He lets himself moan openly with each press of Will to his clothed flesh, with each thrill the crush of their hardening bodies sparks through him. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal tries to show that this is a very welcome turn to the evening; one that merits a change in plans for its new unwelcome rarity. Hannibal’s arms are pinned by Will’s knees to the back of the sofa; he had flung them aside to protect the book. Hannibal doesn’t mind. Rather, he’s quite content to have whatever Will gives him. Will shifts even closer, heavier, though it seems impossible. The thin narrow space between them is smothering and not enough and perfectly lovely all at once. His arms loop around Hannibal’s shoulders before Will’s hands draw languidly down his chest to rub at the burgeoning hardness in his trousers, kneading it deliberately to full strength even as the kiss grows softer, more tender. Hannibal wants the man restraining him with his body weight so much it is too bright to look. It feels like blood in his teeth. So he stills, drinks the moment, practically begs for more. No, not practically; actually begs for more with the shivers wracking his frame, and his eyes welling with fevered anticipation, and his voice cracking, “<em>Will.</em>”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The dog whines, as she does, threatening to bark.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> And then Will’s gone with a last little lick to his throat, picking up his glass and moving to the armchair. He gestures Delilah off so he can sit down. Hannibal hasn’t moved; arms still outstretched, head thrown back against the rim of the sofa. Legs set to allow room in his trousers, panting.He stares at Will, uncertain.He can’t get his bearings, adrift in the prior moment. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So where were we?” Will asks, proud of Hannibal’s state— and already distant with Delilah on his lap. It feels like a joke he’s not privy to, something at his expense.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal gathers himself up. Still reeling, still wanting, and wildly confused about what just happened, he begins to read. His cadence is perfect. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will drains his glass, pets the dog, and starts nodding by ten pages in. At fifteen, he’s asleep. But for the first eight, he was present, eyes just lidded as he saw the story Hannibal told.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It could be considered progress, if one squints. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal puts the book away, then moves to carry Will to bed. Delilah growls at him as he reaches to lift Will, low and protective in her chest. She looks ready to bite him, incongruous with her scrawny eight pounds. Hannibal studies her, nonplussed, but Will is rousing, wipes a hand over his face. Orients himself, still slow with drink.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We should go to bed. Sorry. Should take the dog out,” he says, lifting Delilah from his lap into his arms and heading carefully for the front door.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll lock up,” Hannibal says, gaze matching the triumphant brown one peering over Will’s shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks,” Will says, and the door shuts. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">When Will climbs into bed sometime later, any hope of continuing what Will started is dashed when Delilah hops up onto the bed and settles. Hannibal just turns to face the wall. </span> <em><span class="s2">Hey, I love you, you know.</span></em></p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Hannibal doesn’t say anything when Will spends the evening on the porch with Delilah and whisky. Or the next. And the next after that. And the one following that, slipping into an old habit. Instead, Hannibal draws.He focuses intently with precise, deft flicks of his pencil, wanting to get it </span> <em><span class="s2">right</span></em><span class="s1"><em>.</em> He adds, evening by evening, by evening and following evening, shades to his Will in a dark theatre, rapt and on the verge of overcome. Calling up the memory to the forefront of his mind, living in it, pouring that onto the page before him. It’s not a photographic reproduction, though he could have done that. It’s reality shifted; filtered through Hannibal. He’s nearly finished. Parts of the Will on the page— his eyes first, intense and a little unfocused with the distance to the stage. And then his mouth; the set of his shoulders reflecting Mephistopheles on the stage— are so detailed they almost seem like they’re living on the creamy paper. Hannibal decides he can be— will be satisfied with this. He was before, and with far less rich subject matter. Will gave him the memory. He’ll press this vision— an intangible, malleable thing, held only in the vault of his mind, into permanence. Into reassuring solidity and existence and presence. Hannibal is reminded of drying flowers; bending an ephemeral thing by his will alone into something that exists despite and entirely according to its nature. </span></p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal feels a sharp, almost alarming pulse of surprise and relief when Will asks to accompany him into town for supplies one sunny afternoon. “You’re certain, Will, that Delilah will be all right by herself?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah. We’ve been working hard enough that I think she’ll be okay for a few hours alone. I want to see how she does. We’ll take it slow at first, and maybe soon she won’t need me all the time.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal does not allow himself to name the hopeful feeling as giddy when Will slides into the driver’s seat. He does permit himself a smile. Will picks up on him, nonetheless, smiling widely in return. “This will be good. I’ve missed it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will pulls away and they start the drive on the winding, one-and-a-half lane road through the rural countryside.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I feel like myself again,” Will is saying, and Hannibal’s mind goes a thousand different directions. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not... not that anything has been bad or even missing since we... since everything. But it just feels right to have a dog again. To have someone to care for that’s just love and happiness,” he says, and Hannibal is deep in thought.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You would consider things as better, then?” he says carefully, watching from the corner of his eye.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“On the whole... yeah. I mean, it’s all still so new. We’re still training and we haven’t found a balance, but I’m happy,” Will replies. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal swallows. He’s made this bed, and now he’ll make himself content in it. “I’m glad to hear it, Will.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The grocery run is quite pleasant, though, for Will’s presence and attention. If Hannibal rankles that Will can hold entire conversations that don’t mention a dog with the stall keepers at the open air <em>agromercado</em> Hannibal favors for produce, he dismisses it. Focuses instead on the way Will touches his hand, his waist, his shoulder when he thinks he can get away with it. Focuses on Will’s boyish, nostalgic joy at finding black plums, their purple waxy skin looking tight enough to split in their ripeness. Watches with fond indulgence as he buys a whole basket of them. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What can you make with these?” Will asks, realising just exactly how many plums half a bushel is.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quite a few dishes, sweet or savory or both. They go well with pork especially, and olives. I’m sure you know they take well to grilling and canning. I’ll make something featuring them tonight,” Hannibal says, and he’s already skimming through recipes, planning the courses. Will eats one and then two as they walk among the wares for sale. Hannibal is divided between watching Will’s teeth tear apart the ripe dark flesh and gathering the other supplies on their list.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The drive home is easy; feels normal. Hannibal is brimming full, humming with a quiet satisfaction and hope that he might have Will again, Will himself, not just the scraps left over from the infernal dog.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal smells ink as he carries groceries in. He sets them on the kitchen counter and heads for the living room to find the source. He wouldn’t have left the stopper off, and it shouldn’t smell so strongly even if he did.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Hannibal goes faint and numb at the absolute wreck that greets him there. His drawing paper is in tatters; looks more like snow across the floor. His desk has been ransacked. His pencils have been gnawed at and splintered, deeply gored with teeth marks and scattered. An antique bottle filled with custom ink, the source of the vaguely metallic scent, has been tipped to spill as a river over the desk and knocked onto the floor. There’s a wide arc of it, glossy blue-black pooling on the desk and dripping onto the intricate inlaid wood below. Blue-black covers everything, and broken shards of glass are scattered amongst the shreds of paper, glint under the chair. The sheaf of his score paper is dotted with little paw prints and the whole thin stack is soaked in darkly blooming splotches drowning the notes he’s composed. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The little demon responsible is standing proudly on his desk, tail wagging slowly as she bends and sniffs at an architectural sketch of Montmartre, digs ridges into the paper. She catches an edge in her mouth and worries it, tossing her head sharply from side to side. The thick paper gives with a rending sound and Hannibal flinches. Her paws smudge the graphite he hasn’t had the chance to set yet.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal moves swiftly for the desk, gripping her very carefully with his hands under her ribs despite her barking and wriggling and twisting her head back to bite at his hand. He sets her down firmly onto her new bed by the fireplace, mindless of the ink on her paws staining the fiber. He turns and picks up a shred of his paper from the floor, spreads it out hesitantly between his shaking fingers. He sees dark lashes with a hint of light beneath, cut off by the torn edges of the ravaged paper and punctured by a tooth mark. It’s —well, it was— his sketch of Will at the opera.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Hannibal grows very still. The out-sized— </span> <span class="s2">he knows it’s irrational it doesn’t merit this much of a reaction things can be replaced it’s just paper and graphite and ink the recipe is on file so he can order more and he has his memories he remembers the melody so really in actualityit’s not lost nothing is actually lost </span> <span class="s1">— loss and grief burn so fiercely within him he doesn’t dare move.The little bag of bones is watching him from its bed. Barks defiantly with a high screeching yap, but doesn’t move off of its bed. Under his glare, it sits and shivers. It ducks its head, flicks its ears back, tucks its tail. It was only two and a half hours; Will kept track. A little test of the waters, and this is what it’s done. Hannibal stares at it, watches it cower. Imagines breaking it. <em>Too far</em>, he notes dimly.</span></p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Will.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will must hear the tone in his voice, because his other appears in the door holding their bags. Will flinches, takes a step back, hesitating before he enters the room.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s wrong? It feels like someone’s d—oh. Oh, no. Shit, Hannibal, I’m sorry,” he says as he takes in the scene. Hannibal can’t stand it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Take your dog and go out of the room.” Hannibal doesn’t moderate his tone, and it’s strangely cutting.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will, quick as the flick of a light switch, doesn’t feel what Hannibal’s feeling anymore. He’s on the defensive, squared up for a fight.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, she’s our—“ </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Take </span> <em><span class="s2">your </span></em> <span class="s1">dog and leave the room,” Hannibal cuts him off with a goading tone, and Hannibal considers vaguely that he doesn’t actually want to fight; these are just things and things can be replaced. He has his memories so nothing here has been lost. Nothing’s really gone. He needs to compose himself. </span><span class="s1">But the aria he was working on is drowned in ink, erasing the notes, and it will take weeks for the new sheaf to arrive so he can rewrite it. And he doesn’t have ink anymore to do so; his ink is drying into the desk and floor.</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will scoops the dog up, feet crunching on the shattered glass. He’s not even trying to be careful, grinding shards into the already beleaguered wood. Between his carelessness and the bag of bones, Hannibal glares, lip curling back from his teeth.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re scaring her. Stop looking at her like that— like you want to hurt her,” Will says, fierce protective anger flaring against Hannibal.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Against him. Taking up in its defense, as if he would harm it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, I won’t be ‘looking at her like that’ when you leave, will I?” It’s a nasty tone, he knows. Too far, too far. Hannibal takes a breath, tries to recenter himself before this gets out of control.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Excuse me?” And it’s too late.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal just ignores him, kneeling to gather ink-soaked scraps of paper, picking gingerly to avoid the streaks of congealing liquid already staining the wood along the joins of the design. His throat tightens with each scrap he collects, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak without making things even worse.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You shouldn’t have left your things out where she could get to them,” Will says, and Hannibal barks out a sharp, humorless laugh. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, yes, Will. I’ll be sure to remember to put away my own things in my own home, never mind that they were already in their places. It was supposed to be kenneled,” he snarls, voice edging louder.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She. Delilah is a living, breathing being, not an object,” Will says coldly. “And when has she ever been kenneled since that first night? She doesn’t need to be.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The state of the room says very differently, dear Will. Perhaps I should question your judgment,” he says. His voice is pure acid and he really should stop before they can’t come back.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Look, I’m sorry for your stuff, Hannibal, but honestly, leaving things out where she could get to them was reckless. She could have hurt herself. That scalpel, the gla—“ </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Out.” It’s quiet, almost whispered. Hannibal is concentrating very hard on not pushing this any farther, and the room is airless. The bag of bones has gone silent, tucked her face into Will’s armpit. The only sound is slow dripping ink, and faintly, the waves.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal feels Will’s eyes boring into him as he kneels, head bent to the shreds of paper in his hand. It’s trash now; worthless. Ruined. But the memory isn’t gone, so nothing’s lost. Nothing’s really gone and he has his memories, so nothing has been lost here.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“...Oh. I’m—sorry, Hannibal. We’ll... we’ll be outside,” Will says, and all the fight’s gone out of him. Deep shades of Hannibal’s grief echo in the taut strain of his voice. He turns and takes Delilah with him, picking up the bag of groceries by the door as he leaves.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once he can move, Hannibal moves with purpose and dispassionate calm. He mops up as much of the puddles of ink as he can, is not dismayed at the deep stains left behind. Feels nothing for the heavy sodden sheets of dark wet paper he places in a bin liner. A smaller pile he sets aside;the remains of the destroyed drawings and sheet music. He’ll burn them: can’t bear the thought of them discarded.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal sweeps up the broken 1892 carved crystal inkwell as if it’s only dust. He turns his attention to the careful and precise application of isopropyl alcohol to the desk with an endless stream of cotton balls, dabbing and dabbing until the stains begin to lighten. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I made dinner,” Will tells him. He lingers tentative in the doorway, not entering the room for the quality of the air inside.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">“I’ll be in shortly,” Hannibal replies. He doesn’t look up and he is not bothered when Will disappears again. He is focused on his task. </span> <span class="s1">He dabs and dabs at the stains. They’re nearly gone from the striated black limba wood of the desk; mere shadows lingering, nothing more. </span></p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will doesn’t say anything as he sets a plate of red beans and rice with cilantro on a clean part of the desk, spoon tucked into the food so it won’t fall off. Will looks at him and shivers unconsciously with whatever he’s picking up from Hannibal. Licks his lips, shifts on his feet. Hannibal doesn’t acknowledge him. He considers just buffing the rest of the stains out and having the whole desk refinished when thesection of floor is replaced. The floor is regrettably hopeless. Stained; gouged and splintered by the glass, swollen irrevocably with the minerals in the ink. Will leaves again after some time, running his hand through his hair. Hannibal dabs at the stains, his fingertips wrinkled and whitened with the isopropyl soaking into them. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Will you come to bed, if you won’t eat?” Again, Will lingers just inside the doorway to the dining room, hand gripping his elbow. The table’s cleared now, and the plate that was sat on the desk is cleared too, three perfunctory bites missing. Whatever Will made for dinner, he’s put away. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll be in shortly,” is Hannibal’s reply, not looking up from his task.Will retreats.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal straightens as he finishes, looks over what he’s accomplished. He’s done all he can for the ink stains, brushed the wood with oil following its marbled grain to rehydrate it and protect it. One task remains. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He turns to the fireplace, lighting a fire with the kindling stacked neatly nearby. Once the flames are crackling hungry and bright, he sets the shreds of his paper in them. He watches them catch and burn swift like a gasp. The fire sparks green and red and purple with the minerals and chemicals of the ink. It could be beautiful. Was beautiful. Hannibal watches the fire burn down until it’s just hot ash in the grate. For once, he doesn’t mind the humidity here; it makes it too warm for the sense memory of gnawing cold so freezing it burns to take root in his fingertips.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal is remote when he gets to their bedroom, wrapped in a towel and dripping from the shower. Will is awake, looks up at him from the covers of their bed.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Hey,” he offers. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nothing, just... are you okay?” he watches Hannibal cross to the closet with his back to Will. The other sits up, from the rustle of the sheets. The dog is awake too, judging from the antsy, shivery little movement at Will’s feet, and the barely-audible whining.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll be fine, Will. Things can be replaced.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He unwraps the towel, hangs it up, pulls on underwear. Takes the towel to the laundry room, finds two pairs of differently-concerned eyes on him when he returns. He slides into his side of the bed, shuts his own to sleep. </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He can feel Will watching him, the weight of his gaze resting like an anxious, roving veil over Hannibal’s form.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Go to sleep, Will.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Will settles beside him, and it’s quiet for a moment except the dog still whining in the back of her throat. He wishes she would just stop and let him at least have the quiet.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal feels the bed shift; feels a warm dark line of human heat all along his back, wrap around his chest with Will’s arm, twine with his legs. Feels the brush of soft curls on his neck as Will presses his forehead against the top of Hannibal’s shoulder. The tide of his breath ghosts along his skin, still damp from the shower. Will’s fingertips play gently across his collarbone, then down his arm. His rough palm chafes at the top of Hannibal’s hand where it lies curled against his belly, covers it as if to warm it up.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Come back to me, please. I don’t like you like this. It feels awful,” he murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hannibal breathes deeply into Will; slowly, just once. He’s suddenly suffocating under what he wants to say, and what he doesn’t. What’s irrational, what’s necessary. What will make things worse. What could spare Will helplessly feeling “awful”.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He gets up, pulls away.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m going to read for a while. Go to sleep, Will.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Hannibal throws on his robe and leaves the room, not listening to whatever Will is saying. He sits in Will’s rocking chair on the porch without turning on the lights, listens to the waves crash down the beach into the void of the night. It’s cloudy, and there are no stars. Wonders if Will is always thinking of Wolf Trap when he sits here, or just sometimes. The dogs he left behind. If Delilah is meant to be a way to return to that life there. Or to the one with the wife and child, the readymade family to dissolve into. If Will is already tired of this life they’re building. Of him. And then there’s Will, carefully light and guarded against rejection, saying </span> <em><span class="s2">Hey, I love you, you know. </span></em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hannibal sits in the placid dark, goes around and around. Will was ...content with him, right until Delilah reminded Will of the life he gave up. Will was happy until he was confronted tangibly with what he lost and suddenly had again. Now, Will is discontent. Hiding behind the blind of good whisky and burying himself in the dog and her needs. <br/>Perhaps what they share— their understanding of each other, what Hannibal can offer to Will— doesn’t mean as much as that life does, if it’s all balanced on a scale. <br/>Will always was better at real, sustained connections with humans. They were exceedingly rare, but Will somehow managed the feat with three, maybe five others beside Hannibal himself. What Will did wasn’t the mimicry Hannibal employed, had perfected and relied on for thirty-some odd years. Mere imitations of human interaction: easily filling in the obvious blanks; saying the right words at the right time with the right expression and right tone to suit the moment.<br/> No, Will felt. He felt totally, fully, and succumbed to it. Absolutely withered under the connection. Except for with Hannibal.<br/>  <br/>Hannibal knows Will is the settling type despite himself; always searching for permanence, and Hannibal can’t give him that. With Hannibal, because of him, they’ll always be nomadic. A few months or years here and there, sure. But they would have no permanent home but each other.  Hannibal, judging from the past month, is somehow not enough. So, therefore, Hannibal should let Will go. He should give Will everything he needs and let him find his way to some soft and quiet place and sink his roots deep. Will deserves that. He’s earned that, with all they’ve done to each other. Hannibal has his memories— has them, years of them even, and he can subsist on them. He is able to exist with a Will waiting for him only in his memory palace and the real one free and moving easily about the world. He’s proved it before. The sky begins to lighten in the East. At first, it’s just a retreat of the night dark, too early for color to spill across the clouds.</p>
<p>He goes around and around. Hannibal categorically rejects letting Will go; his body drawn taut against the thought. He is not a generous man. He doesn’t want Will to be anywhere but shoulder to shoulder with him, facing what comes. Will is Hannibal’s. Has been; must be. Hannibal will tear to bloody pieces anything that would separate them, themselves included. <br/>And Will chose him; chose this fate. Will orchestrated his release and pulled him off the cliff and into the waiting sea, because Will himself couldn’t bear them parted again. He said as much, so much. Hey, I love you, you know. Will never was truly fulfilled before him; never even once before they fell into their circling, sparring <em>pas de deux</em>, searching for first blood spilt.  Will had never fully lived, before him. Hannibal, if nothing else, deserves his place at Will’s side. Has earned it.</p>
<p>And Will had sailed across the entire Atlantic ocean by his own hand to find Hannibal in Florence. The imago of him wells up before Hannibal’s eyes, unbidden.<br/>Will, battered and smiling like he’s found true north beneath the springtime in the Uffizi Gallery. They sit together under the calm or fateful eyes of the figures in the painting, unsure of who exactly is who: Zephyrus; or Chloris, as she becomes Flora. Hannibal had always known —assumed— he was the ascended Zephyr, already having been forcibly changed in his own time. <br/>But now, in this ashen tropical darkness on their porch before the waves, he admits he doesn’t know anything at all. Hannibal, perhaps, is Chloris after all; trembling and afraid of what is happening, terrified for what is to come.</p>
<p><em>If you don’t want that, if you don’t want us, just end it now and be done. I want it. I always will.</em> Will is in the bath now, naked and unashamed. Doe-eyed and honest and terribly open, pleading for Hannibal to meet him in his new understanding, in his mercy.<br/>Will is preparing the knife in his far hand as they walk with identical steps, close as thieves under the Italian sun.</p>
<p> Will is nothing but his. Will belongs to him, just as Hannibal belongs irrevocably to Will. Hannibal has made countless sacrifices at his altar. He has worshiped Will into their present existence; paid him in blood and yet more blood, even his own as if it might slake either of their thirsts.<br/>But Will is drinking to be drunk again. Hannibal goes around and around.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>He’s startled by the door opening. A streak of gray and white fur dashes by him for the sparse grass of the yard. The sun is nearly finished rising, the clouds still washed with candy colors. Will’s footsteps fall on the porch, carefully audible, and stop just behind his chair. A fragrant cup of coffee appears, rim catching the clear dawn light. Will lays a warm hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. It’s pure gold sunlight striking straight and true to his heart. Will squeezes him lightly, as if a touch could say, could explain everything that lies between them. Hannibal leans into the touch. He must, and he wants to; he accepts the coffee Will presses firmly into his stiff hand.</p>
<p>“Go to sleep, Hannibal,” Will’s saying, and it’s so gentle Hannibal might break, might let him go. “I’ll be here when you’re up.”</p>
<p>So Hannibal stands, joint by aching joint. He rolls his shoulders discreetly, loosening them from hours of the same stagnant position. Will takes him in, mouth set in a thin concerned line of plain worry. <em>Hey, I love you, you know.</em> Hannibal smiles tentatively in return. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and then heads inside. </p>
<p>He is drawn to the living room compulsively. He knows what he’s facing, and is well-armored this time. <br/>There’s nothing much to see. The spare emptiness of the desk. Black dull splashes on the floor. Cold ashes in the grate, waiting to be swept out. It’s... less in the early morning light. So much less, smaller. Pathetic. Only things easily missed. Easily replaced. Nothing really gone. Hannibal turns away all the same.</p>
<p>He yawns as he slides into his side of the bed, only slightly warm now from Will’s body. Moss and ambergris linger on Hannibal’s pillow, and he is heartened to envision Will curling up in his space, reaching for him. He sleeps. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>When he rises and appears in the kitchen two hours later, groomed and set to rights, Will offers a fresh cup of coffee for him in one of his simple, thick white mugs. On the counter, there’s a plate prepared with sliced plum and toast. The bread is layered with avocado and draped with a lightly fried egg, the golden yolk dripping languidly onto the plate; Will’s variation on Hannibal’s breakfast some months ago. He notes that Will chose this particular breakfast to recreate and adds more avocado to their running menu. Hannibal eats the fruit first; juice welling on his tongue as his teeth bite through the rich flesh. Hannibal shuts his eyes, catalogues the sensation.<br/>“I believe I owe you dinner tonight, Will,” he says.</p>
<p>“I’m looking forward to it. But—“ Will stops, collecting his thoughts, absently petting the dog in his arms that’s watching Hannibal with big brown eyes. Hannibal does not acknowledge Delilah. It would be rude, but she’s a dog. <br/>“I wanted to apologize for getting carried away,” Will begins. “I got all wrapped up in her, and with Molly, I— it became habit to focus on the dogs, and what they needed after the move and— and everything else. I haven’t been good about the balance. I’m sorry for that.” Will is serious, his fine dark brows knitting together in his peculiar way. Hannibal takes a bite of the toast to distract himself from studying them.</p>
<p>“It’s new for both of us,” Hannibal says, uncertain, finding interest in the clean counter of the island. He’s certainly uncomfortable with being compared to Molly: a mere placeholding clutch for stability, held as icon for some little while before Will breaks off for an unexpected direction. Hannibal himself, in this example. He wonders if Will blushed when he told her he loved her, too. Wonders if Will will go back to her when she’ll take him or if he’ll find another.</p>
<p>“Do you want to hold Delilah?” Will offers her to Hannibal, his tone light and hopeful. The little thing scrabbles against his shoulder, whining pitifully, trying to get closer to Will and regain her foothold.<br/>“No,” Hannibal says honestly. <br/>Will shifts, obviously hurt. “Really?”</p>
<p>“I’m eating breakfast. It’s unhygienic,” Hannibal says, not unkindly. <br/>It seems like a better thing to say than the mere sight of Delilah makes Hannibal feel irrationally cold. And besides, to say that out loud to Will would mean Hannibal would have to admit it.</p>
<p>“...Fine,” Will says. He pulls the dog back to his chest and closes his arms more fully around her. He pets between her ears. Delilah relaxes in his arms, tail wagging steadily. Resentment wells in Hannibal at the affection so freely given to her. It’s an ugly feeling. Hannibal rejects it.</p>
<p>Will’s face is carefully neutral, but Hannibal can sense that he’s misstepped;  maybe disastrously, just now. It burns, and Hannibal can’t reject it. He can only sit with it and ache. Hannibal eats the rest of the plum with deference, not that it matters.</p>
<p><br/>At length, he shoos Will out of the kitchen. Will goes too easily; he’s been wanting to take Delilah out for sometime already, but he’s waited for Hannibal’s direction. <br/>Hannibal moves to wash up the dishes and dirty pans from breakfast. Wonders idly how toast could result in five knives, two cutting boards and three separate pans needing washed.</p>
<p>He tries not to rankle at the pure ease Will has with Delilah. Their happy, living sounds drift in from the open windows nonetheless. Fade off as they make their way down the beach, away from him.</p>
<p>Will has admitted things weren’t as they should be. Admitted that he, his Will, wants differently from how they have been at present. And that’s enough to stay, for now. Enough to wait and see. </p>
<p>Hannibal turns away from the window; the dishes are done and he puts them away in their places. He retreats to their piano and settles comfortably on the bench. He sets his hands to rest in position. Hannibal hesitates, unsure of what to play.<br/>Of their own accord, his hands find and strike the notes for a dearly-loved Bach aria, a hopeful variation following suit. The variation bears with it all the emotions coiling and snapping within that he can’t find the voice for.  He examines them as he hears them, the scant distance helpful in analysis. It’s tender, tentative, the high notes unresolved and pleading, even as they find their way to a suitable end. The last note is wanting, vibrating against the waves through their windows.</p>
<p><br/>When the melody is finished, Hannibal sits waiting for Will in the dense silence, listening. He’s still alone. </p>
<p>Hannibal starts his variation again, relying on his memory to recreate it. The keys, in their succession, become a rosary. <br/>He prays them over and over again until Will at last comes in, Delilah skittering ahead of him like a petrel skirting dark clouds. Will doesn’t come to him, retreating to the guest room for something or other. He plays the melody once more, pouring himself into it and listening to the last note as it’s swallowed by the waves. There’s movement in the other room, but no acknowledgement. So Hannibal gets up.</p>
<p><br/>He does owe Will a full dinner service based around the ripe plums waiting in the kitchen before he cans or makes jam of the majority. When the clock strikes four-thirty in the afternoon, Hannibal throws himself into the dinner to be served at seven, sparing no effort. </p>
<p>He stuffs plums with goat cheese and ruddy marketplace honey; places a dainty single hexagon of honeycomb atop each gutted plum half. </p>
<p>Makes a roulade with pork (well, “pork”) and a plum confit on a bed of tender, bitter greens.</p>
<p>Will, to his credit, hasn’t lost interest yet. He’s stayed. Delilah has resigned herself to her place in the living room as if it’s the gallows, little ears pinned to her skull and big brown eyes full of melancholy abandonment as she watches Will’s back. Hannibal can see her from his seat at the table, but he doesn’t care. Will is here with him, now.</p>
<p>Peach gazpacho for variety, made savory with bacon.</p>
<p>Brie and caramelized plum and walnuts with saltwater crackers for the cheese course.</p>
<p>Dessert, a plum and olive oil cake. More to Hannibal’s tastes than Will’s, but he eats it all. Moreover, Will steals a gleeful forkful gouged directly from the remainder as he passes it in the kitchen when they’re cleaning up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He doesn’t even really mind when Will pours a glass of Glenlivet, almost guiltily, and calls Delilah to him as he heads for the porch. The dog scrambles for him, and he scoops her up, balancing the heavy-laden glass effortlessly before he disappears and the door shuts behind him. </p>
<p>Hannibal evens out the cake, replaces the glass dome. He eats what he cut out, imagining he can taste Will along the forkful the other man carved into the cake.<br/>At length, alone, he retires to bed, unwilling to sit and stew in their living room, facing the empty desk. </p>
<p>When Hannibal’s close enough to sleep he might actually shut his eyes, he hears the door. It opens and shuts and locks. There’s the quick flash of Delilah’s paws against the floor, and Will’s heavy, carefully steady steps making their way to the living room. A silence stretches for close to half an hour after Will settles on the sofa. A shuffling of cloth...? Will’s steps grow louder in the hall to their bedroom, and this door shuts with them both on the same side. Hannibal waits for the tilt of the bed, the eddy of movement as Delilah settles. </p>
<p><br/>Instead, Will throws back the covers wrapped around Hannibal, dumps himself directly onto the other man’s chest and sprawls. He’s quite naked. Hannibal perks up, surprised, hands settling on Will’s hips by instinct to hold him steady. Will is all writhing heat under his hands as Hannibal caresses his pliant frame. Will stiffens rather admirably where he grinds against the join of Hannibal’s thigh into the fabric of his pyjamas bunched there. </p>
<p>“Love you, baby,” Will murmurs, pressing kisses into his hair, against his lips, not quite desperate, but overeager and relatively  uncoordinated. Hannibal just blinks, staggered to an attentive stillness. The words make grammatical sense, but not in that order. Hannibal melts as Will rolls liquidly against him, strokes him and pets him, raises goosebumps in the wake of his seeking hands. Hannibal returns the kiss such as it is for a time, reveling in Will’s attentions. But he can’t help tilting his nose to Will’s curls, the damp sweat ringing his hairline. <br/>Hannibal is quite sober, and the waft of alcohol being processed by Will’s liver taints the ambergris of his scent considerably. Hannibal debates if Will is actually consenting in this state, given how things have been. If he wants this, or if he’s just responding to pleasurable stimuli. He draws away slowly, layering fervent kisses on Will’s cheeks and forehead to soften the withdrawal. </p>
<p>“Tomorrow, Will.” Hannibal says against his other’s weak protests. He settles Will beside himself on the bed, turns him around to sleep in his arms as they used to. Will seems to accept this easily enough, rocking back into him and fitting perfectly.</p>
<p>Delilah is patently frantic in her scrabbling at the door, whining shrilly, threatening to bark but for Will’s training. Hannibal listens to the noise. And with a deep, resigned sigh, more in thought for the door than for the dog, he gets up to let Delilah in. He watches her dash onto the bed, sniffing Will over before she settles by Will’s face and curls up to sleep. Hannibal gathers himself and gets in carefully to go to bed. </p>
<p>He slips his arm around Will, fitting himself to Will’s sleeping frame. Ignores Delilah growling until she gives up and settles.</p>
<p>In the morning, he gives Will water and aspirin and eggs benedict set on his nightstand to recover with. Delilah perks up at the scent of food, trotting the short distance to the nightstand for a proper sniff. Hannibal fixes the dog with a warning stare. She retreats to Will’s side with a frightened little whine. Always whining.</p>
<p>Hannibal follows Will’s routine while he sleeps the whisky off. He opens the door for Delilah to go out, but she’s defensively planted by Will’s inert, unmoving side, sharp brown eyes threatening Hannibal when he approaches. A nearly soundless low growl echoes from her chest and she squares up with Hannibal, ready to bite if he should reach for Will. It’s almost laughable; she’s tiny and can’t even protect herself. He could be charmed by the depth of her loyalty to Will, but it’s just irritating.</p>
<p>“He’s mine,” he finds himself saying. Which is absurd, because she’s a dog.<br/>Delilah doesn’t back down, and neither does Hannibal, who gives her her berth but returns to his side of the bed with his tablet holding her gaze, daring her to attack. After a long stretch of time, Delilah breaks the gaze, shakes herself off with great circumstance and curls up at Will’s feet. Tucks her head to sleep. Hannibal could be gratified at the victory, but he’s thinking of why Will needed to be drunk to come to him as he did.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>Will is a shuffling wreck of a human upon waking. When he rouses and peels his eyes open, he immediately squeezes them shut against the dim, curtained light and fumbles for the aspirin. But Delilah makes a pitiful, needful sound and he’s suddenly up to let her out, stumbling for the door, grabbing his robe when the cooler air of the room hits his bare flesh. He disappears down the hall to let her through the front door, murmuring apologies to her. Hannibal watches, then gets up himself. He measures a dose of aspirin and then makes strong black coffee. <br/>He comes to stand beside Will propped up against the porch railing, mutely holds out the medicine and coffee. Will takes them both, swallows the aspirin and then a deep draught from the cup. Hannibal soaks in the way Will leans against him as they watch a relieved Delilah ramble over the tufts of beach grass. </p>
<p>“I meant it, last night,” is all Will says, face turned down to the remaining liquid in his mug. Hannibal rests his hand on the back of Will’s neck, pulls him in closer. <br/>“We’ll find our balance, Will,” he murmurs into his curls. He means it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will, true to his word, spends actual time with Hannibal over the coming days. Valjean rescues Marius in the sewers of Paris. Javert is defied, is undone by strange mercy, and dies by his own hand. Cosette and Marius are married and go to meet the world of their new life. As Hannibal reads, he sees it come to life in Will’s face, and he has seldom been so gratified.</p>
<p>Their conversations take them late into the night, soaring and delving with actual arguments for Sun Tzu and why Hegel would agree with him; why Odin favored crows and not a more regal bird.<br/>Hannibal doesn’t stray so far from home these days; he limits himself to Havana or closer, preferring Will accompany him when he ventures out for a trip that takes the day. He lingers often, a shadow in the doorframe, watching Will with the dog.</p>
<p>But Hannibal avoids Delilah, and she avoids him. There is no great love lost between them, merely tolerating the other’s presence and claim on Will. Will seems caught somewhere between, an unwilling referee. Any choice he makes seems to disappoint one or the other, and occasionally both. If he puts Delilah out of the room and pulls Hannibal close enough to kiss, to limn with his body,  Delilah makes such agonized whines at the door that Hannibal gives up with a thin resigned smile. If Will takes Delilah for a walk and lingers over a spectacular view, Hannibal is chopping something with a controlled violence in the kitchen, or gone to town with a note left on the counter. If Will accompanies him to town, Hannibal insists Delilah be kenneled. It’s always, always an argument, which results in a sulky, anxious Will, a ruffled, cool Hannibal, and a Delilah that clings and clings and growls once they’re back.</p>
<p><br/>It goes on, and on. Hannibal can sense the air in their home is gradually thickening. Their sentences shorten, pill into one-word briefs about the necessities of living together. They’re never quite easy now together, and worse apart. </p>
<p>Hannibal brings meat home, once again. Will, hurt, blatantly refuses to eat it. He picks around it on principle. Hannibal cannot bear this, but he says nothing, lets the conversation suffocate into tense silence. His eyes flicker to Will’s plate every so often, despite himself. When Will leaves to attend to Delilah, he clears the table. He finds himself eating the discards from Will’s plate with his fingers as he’s hunched over the sink, his mind far off and darkly shadowed with a compulsion that he recognizes, and doesn't fight. Will catches a glimpse of Hannibal as he’s heading to the front door, stutters to a stop with Delilah in his arms and stares. Hannibal doesn’t look at him, but he refuses to be shamed. He brings a morsel pinched between his fingers to his mouth as Will watches, blinking. Will frowns, turns away. Disappears through the door.<br/>Hannibal eats despite his fullness until it’s gone. He washes the dishes and doesn’t mention it when Will returns. <br/>That night, Will curls against him again, chafing warmth into the hand that lies over his belly. He rests against Hannibal, silent, and Hannibal does not pull away.</p>
<p>The next day, Will finishes what’s plated for him. </p>
<p><br/>Hannibal figures this tension between them is not his problem to solve. He’s merely taking Will up on his offer and Will’s own choices are causing him this new grief. But Hannibal is standing on the rail, feels the tremor of the oncoming train. The seed of doubt rolls and grows in his gut: Will is going to choose soon, between him or the dog. </p>
<p>It boils over when Will suggests they head to town. Something has been delivered to their anonymous post box and he wants to retrieve it personally. Hannibal is agreeable, is already fortified for the usual fight when he casually tosses out, “I’m ready as soon as you’ve kenneled the dog.”Will breaks like a hurricane, his face dark with anger.</p>
<p><br/>“No. No, Hannibal, I’ve had enough. This— whatever this is, it’s absolutely ridiculous and you both need to get over yourselves,” Will all but shouts. He picks up Delilah and stalks over to where Hannibal is stood in the doorway to the living room, chastened by Will’s tone. His other shoves Delilah into Hannibal’s arms, backs away so Hannibal has no choice but to cradle and support her small frame. </p>
<p>It’s the first time in the four months she’s lived with them that Hannibal has truly held her, and he’s caught off-guard. She’s very small, deceptively light; all legs and ears and big brown eyes that see everything. Her fur is shockingly soft, invites light, indulging strokes. He notes, with surprise, that he is: the hand that isn’t supporting her nine pounds runs gently across her fur from her head to her tail. <br/>Delilah is stunned into stillness, staring longingly after Will like he’s leaving her to die. He looks at both of them in turn meaningfully.<br/>“I’m going into town for a while. You two actually make friends or something in the meantime. I won’t live like this anymore.”</p>
<p>“Will—“</p>
<p>“If it’s not ‘I love this dog’, I don’t want to hear it, Hannibal.”</p>
<p>Hannibal regards him, still petting Delilah, and only offers, “if I’m to care for her, you’re making dinner.”</p>
<p>“Fine. Yeah, sure, I’ll make dinner tonight,” Will turns and heads for the door; grabbing the keys from their hook. The door slams in his wake, and Hannibal hears the low purr of the engine as Will peels out.</p>
<p>Hannibal is only relieved that Will will be back tonight; has not chosen to leave him entirely. But in the meantime— <br/>He turns his attention to the weight in his arms, still stroking her fur. It feels like what skimming his hand across just-warm water might; so soft it almost doesn’t register. Anxious, forlorn brown eyes stare up into his, and he feels the tremble of her heart against her ribs.</p>
<p>“Hello, Delilah,” he says as he pets her. “You’re very soft.”</p>
<p>There’s a tentative wag of her tail.</p>
<p><br/>Hannibal decides that’s progress enough and sets her down. She skitters away, as usual, but less far this time. She stops, turns around. Looks at Hannibal. He looks at her. Hannibal tilts his head and lifts a brow. He’s suddenly curious.  “Heel?”</p>
<p>Delilah considers, the little cogs in her mind whirring into overdrive behind those worried brown eyes. She walks back to Hannibal cautiously, obeying the command rather than the person giving it. Will has trained her well. “Good girl,” he encourages, and suddenly she’s bounding over to him, leaping into his arms that reach out entirely of their own volition to catch her and hold her. To never let her falter. </p>
<p>She licks his face with abandon. Hannibal fights a shiver of revulsion at the wet saliva on his lips and up his nose, wiping his face with his free hand. He keeps his voice light, treading carefully. “None of that, now, please.” He holds her so his face is beyond her reach. She’s relaxed, ears peeking forward. She likes being held, expects nothing but indulgence and more petting from him despite their months of antipathy. She never did have street smarts. Hannibal is beginning to understand why Will loves dogs so much. This kind of forgiveness is rare.</p>
<p>“I imagine we both hold very many reservations about the other,” Hannibal begins, ignoring the thought that she’s a dog. Delilah apparently has no such reservations, squirming in anticipation. He pets her.  She gives a happy little huff and settles her chin on his shoulder, her delicate little face perfectly contented. Has it really been so simple this whole time?</p>
<p><br/>He supposes, as he pets her, that she can’t be considered a bag of bones any longer. She’s grown strong and healthy, holds a balanced weight on her frame. She’s all sleek rippling fur now, and those ears and eyes.</p>
<p><br/>Hannibal moves to set her down again, but the specific weight of her is quite comfortable in his arms, and she seems pleased for his attention.  So instead he ambles around their home, humming his variation to himself, deep in thought. The coldness he felt before when he watched Delilah hoard all of Will’s affection isn’t present. Rather, he’s fond suddenly, somehow, finds himself protective of her. She has decided to trust him. Delilah is an innocent little being, helpless against the world and turning to him for comfort. He will not let her down.</p>
<p>Hannibal picks out <em>L’Etranger</em> from the shelf.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Will returns some hours later, they have reached a tentative peace. Well, tentative on Hannibal’s part. Delilah is sprawled in his lap on her back, legs poking into the air as Hannibal rubs her belly. He reads with his free hand.</p>
<p><br/>Will just stares, a wrapped package in his arms. His face is set; his posture is all apprehension and weary determination to endure whatever scene he’ll find, and he’s so surprised he hasn’t moved yet. <br/>“I expected a ceasefire, not an alliance,” he says, and now he’s smiling so widely Hannibal can’t help but return it. The tension falls from Will’s shoulders as he moves closer. He gazes at them, something terribly soft and relieved there.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I cannot say I love this dog,” Hannibal begins, and the smile drops away for worry to take its place. <br/>“She is, however, a dear little one. Perhaps love will come in time spent together,” he finishes, face open for Will to see his sincerity there.</p>
<p>Will doesn’t smile because he kisses Hannibal then, grateful and chaste. He shifts the package in his arms to cup his cheek. “Thank you,” he says, voice rough with emotion. Will lets Hannibal see it, doesn’t hide it away. That’s dangerously endearing, and so Hannibal allows the tradeoff of the dog for the package. <br/>“I have something for you, too," Will says, taking the dog. Hannibal fights the surprising reluctance to give Delilah up. A flash of understanding for Will comes to him, and Hannibal softens.</p>
<p>“Oh?” Hannibal memorizes his place in the book as he sets it aside, examining the package. Will turns to Delilah for a moment, cooing praises into her overjoyed ear. </p>
<p>“It’s for you. To... It doesn’t replace. I’m so sorry for that. But—  I hope you use it often. I’ve missed you.” Will is couching the gift in his own needs, which they both know means that Hannibal cannot refuse him. He doesn’t begrudge Will the manipulation.</p>
<p>Hannibal unwraps the thin twine bow and plain craft paper wrapping. He doesn’t recall any anniversary or special date associated with today. He stills as his eyes skim the contents.<br/>His preferred brands of drawing and score paper sit nestled together, bound in shrink wrap. His custom ink lies in a little glass bottle reminiscent of the one that was broken. Pencils, carefully sharpened, gathered in a bundle tied with black velvet ribbon.</p>
<p>When had...? <br/>Hannibal hadn’t replaced his things yet. Replacement required thinking about what was lost, cataloguing and examining them one by one. Searching for the companies online and risking the recognition to order them. Hannibal had avoided doing so partially for their safety and mostly because of the emotional expense. But this— it’s not a reminder of that night. These things won’t call up a memory of cold loss by their presence. These things are a gift from Will, to be treasured.</p>
<p>Hannibal wipes at his eyes and knows Will knows. <br/>“Thank you,” is what he manages, moving to carefully set them on the refinished desk in their proper places. </p>
<p>“I’m going to start on dinner,” Will says. Once Hannibal is finished, he moves to take Delilah back into his arms. She wags her tail, happy for the exchange, and he follows Will into the kitchen. Will brings out a familiar cooler, and Hannibal freezes. Before he can ask, Will dismisses him with a casual nod to the door.<br/>“She needs to go out. I’ll call you in,” he says, his instructions clear. Hannibal, questions brimming on his tongue, obeys. When he’s on their porch, he sets Delilah down. She dashes off for the sandy grass of their yard, and Hannibal follows. He walks with her as she trots happily along their beach, watches as she sniffs everything in sight. He takes in the orange light of late afternoon glinting off the waves, listens to their crash and pull. There’s a decadent, full-fat creamy peace to this moment. Delilah is confident and at ease here, chasing the retreating waves lapping at the shore. Will is waiting for him. Cooking for him, at home. Another rush of understanding washes over Hannibal. Who indeed could resist this as their whole life stretching before them?</p>
<p>At length, Delilah tires, and Hannibal carries her back to their porch. He settles into Will’s rocking chair, watching the sea. Deep and easy contentment blooms in his chest as he pets her. It really was so simple.</p>
<p>Hannibal tips his head back in the red wash of the sunset. It’s not silence he’s floating in. It’s the waves and seabirds, calling high and victorious. Will’s patter as he opens the door and calls for them both like it’s old habit. Will’s voice quieting fondly as he sees them sitting ensconced together just a few feet from him.  Hannibal tastes it all the same on the back of his tongue. Sweetgold. Not the same as before, but perhaps richer, deeper, a more intricate harmony. </p>
<p>“Are you ready for dinner, little lamb?” Will’s saying, gesturing the dog inside for her supper.  She flies across the lintel, focused on her food bowl. Hannibal gets up as well, following her inside. Will’s waiting for him there, smiling, and the night is only beginning.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey there delilah what's it like in new york city i'm a thousand miles away from you but tonight you look so pretty</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you got through even a sentence of this without singing “Hey There, Delilah,” you’re a stronger person than I am.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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